


Hang An Anchor From the Sun

by untune_the_sky



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Leverage, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Grifter!Natasha, Hacker!Tony, Hackers, Hitter!Bucky, Hitters, M/M, Mastermind!Steve, Masterminds - Freeform, Retired!Dottie/Ida, Retired!Peggy, Steve's A Baby Mastermind (Sort Of), Team Building, Team Dynamics, There's A Significant Age Difference Between Steve and Peggy, grifters, thief!Clint, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8144335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untune_the_sky/pseuds/untune_the_sky
Summary: “You want to run it.”“No,” she says. “I’ll grift for you. You’ll run it for me — manage the civilians. We’ll see how well we suit one another before going in together in Nice. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. No hard feelings, and you still have time to find someone else.”Steve rereads the card, memorizing the name, number, date, and address on it.“Okay. Los Angeles,” he says. “I’ll see you two weeks.”AKA: The Leverage AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to say a quick thank you to Zip for poking at this and finding all my typos. Any remaining mistakes are my own. 'Stina and Frito both gave this a once-over about midway through the process, which gave me a much-needed morale boost. :) 
> 
> The title of the song comes from Andrew McMahon's "Fire Escape," but I listened to "Closer" by The Chainsmokers feat. Halsey the entire time I was writing this. Sadly, none of the lyrics matched up with the tone of the fic, but there's always next time.
> 
> Constructive feedback is always appreciated, as are comments in general. (Seriously, guys. Getting comments and kudos is the best thing. <3)
> 
> Tangentially related: I'm totally still working on the fifth installment of the Soulmate AU _and_ the second chapter of the AU of the Soulmate AU. RL's just decided it needs to be exceedingly difficult these last few months, which has thrown my writing schedule _all_ out of whack. I'm clawing my way back to normalcy now, though, so! Fingers crossed that nothing else comes up.

_This is how it begins:_

 

“Hey, Peg?” Steve says, frowning as he looks up from the plane ticket in his hand.

“Yes, darling?” Peggy glances toward him as she continues folding her favorite blouse. She turns away to place it carefully in her suitcase. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, expertly styled so the streaks of steel gray flow through it without seeming out of place.

“Why’d you only book one ticket for Italy?”

“Because only one of us is going, of course.”

“Why?” Steve asks.

Peggy can see the wheels in his mind turning even as she answers him, “Darling. You’re far too young to retire.”

“You’re retiring?”

“It’s long past time.” When Steve doesn’t immediately respond, Peggy smiles. “There’s really nothing left for me to teach you, you know.”

“Peggy,” he begins.

“Shush. It’s true. You haven’t needed my input in years.”

“Then why did you stay?”

“For you, of course,” she answers, as though that should have been obvious. “For you — and for the _fun_ of it.”

That makes Steve quirk a smile. “It has been fun, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Peggy says, smiling again. It’s a wider expression this time, light and open.

The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes are deeper now than when he first knew her — they spread farther toward her temples. She smiles brightly, mischievously. She’s a joyous soul with dubious morals and Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever love anyone quite the way he’s loved her.

Stepping toward him, Peggy presses a gentle kiss to his lips before pulling back to look him in the eye again. One of her brows is raised, like she’s expecting something from him.

Knowing that their time together is drawing rapidly to a close, Steve takes a breath and pulls her back into his arms. Inhaling her familiar scent, the way her arms have come up to circle his shoulders, he asks, “Are you going dark?”

Because that’s important. She’s never dropped off the grid before. He’s never been unable to contact her. If something goes wrong, he at least wants her to be able to contact him.

“No,” Peggy murmurs, cheek pressed to his bony shoulder. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, this should be delightful.”

“Yours, or mine?”

“Both, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. Mine outnumber yours.”

“Yes, well. Mine’s smart enough for two.”

“This all assumes they find one another.”

“Of course they’ll find one another. Don’t be foolish.”

“It’s foolish, leaving their meetings to chance.”

“It would have been foolish to force things. Now, they’ll come together naturally.”

“There is no guarantee.”

“But there is, darling. There is: They’re each the best at what they do.”

 

* * *

 

_This is also how it begins:_

 

“I need a grifter.” The words fall out of Steve’s mouth without any real intent aside from getting his point across to the woman in front of him. The dim lights outside the restaurant where they agreed to meet show that she’s as short as he is, but that’s where their similarities end.

Her bright red hair currently styled in waves at chin length and, while he’s wearing a pair of slacks with a plaid button down, she’s decked out in a generic hoodie with dark-wash jeans that look like they had to be sewn onto her from the knee up on each side.

“Lost yours, did you?” She asks, arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

He debates his answer for all of a moment before saying, “Yes.”

“Tsk,” the woman says, a small smirk playing about the corners of her lips. Then she blows a bubble, still staring at him, and lets it pop before continuing, “How irresponsible.”

Steve shrugs. He’s not giving anyone any information on Peggy, but he’s not a terribly convincing liar, so it’s best to stick mostly to the truth.

“A little birdie told me she left you,” the woman murmurs, burying her hands in her pockets as she tips her head to the side, indicating they should go for a walk.

Steve knows most of the things of which she’s capable. That doesn’t mean he intends to underestimate her. Someone allegedly trained beneath _the_ Black Widow — the original — isn’t someone to take lightly, no matter the situation. But someone trained beneath _the_ Black Widow is also someone whose abilities and negotiation tactics he should trust.

If they have it nowhere else, they have to have honor amongst themselves.

He’s a clean slate. In fact, Steve’s nothing _but_ a clean slate, now that Peggy’s hied off to Italy for her Tuscan retirement. He asks, “What else did your little birdie tell you?”

“Not much,” she says, brows pinching together in the most delicate of frowns. “My little birdie wasn’t feeling particularly chatty after I mentioned I was meeting with the legendary Agent Carter’s protege.”

“Irritating, when they do that,” Steve comments. He’d spoken with Peggy the day before and she’d been nothing but supportive of the idea that he start building up his own team. Of course, she’d said almost nothing relating to the job he was asking her for advice about after he mentioned who he was thinking of tapping to grift.

“Yes,” she replies as she rubs her knuckles against the inside of her wrist. He wonders if it’s a deliberate move or an absentminded habit — a tell. It’d be dangerous to assume either.

“It’s just one job.”

“A trial run.”

“Yes,” he nods.

“We’ll see,” she responds.

“I need more than that. I can’t plan a job without knowing who’s in play.”

She considers him, one red curl falling forward into her face as she watches him. “I’ll be in Nice when the planning begins. I can’t promise I’ll stick around. I don’t work with subpar operatives.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Who’ve you got on comms and tech?”

“No one, yet. The con’s six months out.”

She doesn’t reply immediately. In fact, she doesn’t reply for a very long time. Steve wonders what options and opinions she’s weighing and whether or not he’ll come out on top when she stops deliberating.

“Consider this,” she says, slowly pulling a card from her pocket.

After taking the card, Steve raises her eyebrows. “SI?”

“SI,” she confirms.

“What’s the gameplan?”

“They want infiltration and distraction. There’s a lot of information — and money — at stake. I can handle the mark… but there are extenuating circumstances,” she says. “Extra people cluttering things up.”

“Getting in the way,” Steve says.

“Yes.”

Steve holds his silence, waiting her out.

“It’ll be a better trial run than your job in Nice.”

“You want to run it.”

“No,” she says. “I’ll grift for you. You’ll run it for me — manage the civilians. We’ll see how well we suit one another before going in together in Nice. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. No hard feelings, and you still have time to find someone else.”

Steve rereads the card, memorizing the name, number, date, and address on it.

“Okay. Los Angeles,” he says. “I’ll see you two weeks.”

 

* * *

 

“She’s testing him.”

“Of course she is.”

“He’ll pass.”

“I should hope so. It’s a very simple test.”

“I like that she’s thinking ahead already.”

“You mean SI specifically?”

“I mean Stark.”

“Well, it only makes sense.”

“I agree.”

“She plays well with others. Sometimes.”

“Most times, given the cons the three of you used to run.”

“True.”

“But not all the time.”

“No, never all the time.”

 

* * *

 

_This is also how it begins:_

 

“Seriously?” Stark demands. “ _Seriously!?_ ”

“Seriously,” Steve responds. “Gather whatever you think’s important enough to take with us. Move quickly or Stane will take you down with your company.”

“I can’t _believe_ this. And who’re you, waltzing in here like you can just — can just. Wait, what are you doing?”

“Making sure your PA’s out of the building,” Steve says, bent over a computer in Stark’s LA offices as he clicks through various feeds of security footage.

“My PA? What do you want with Pepper?”

“She’s carrying the last electronic copies of everything you’ve been working on for the last eight years.”

“Eight _years_?”

“You ‘forgot’ to upload it to the Stark Industries shared backup servers,” Steve says, clicking through several different security camera video streams. Once he confirms that the PA is out of the parking garage and heading toward a secured location, he begins shutting down the programs he’s had running.

“I forgot?”

“Yes,” Steve answers. “That’s what your statement’s going to say. Don’t worry, we’ll help you with the basics and you can fill in the rest however you’d like. We’ve been informed that you like to go off-script, so it’s best if we just paint the picture in broad strokes.”

“But that’s — I have that done automatically. The backups. What _story_ — ”

“Your AI thought it best not to place your projects and blueprints in an electronic location accessible to Stane. Along with a few other important, particularly destructive projects of yours,” Steve murmurs, eyeing Stark.

If Natasha’s thinking of bringing him on for tech support and comms, maybe he can get Stark to wipe out their electronic footprints entirely.

“You know about JARVIS?”

“He and Miss Potts have been very diligent — rather, they’ve been as diligent as you’d let them be — when it comes to protecting you.”

“Me?” Stark is tugging almost compulsively on his cuffs, possibly attempting to make sure precisely the same amount of white cloth is visible at both wrist.

“Yes, you,” Steve replies, mildly exasperated. “And your work. After we’ve finished wiping all of your personal servers — or outright destroying them — there’ll be nothing left from which Stane can profit.”

“But the company — ”

“The company isn’t you, Mister Stark,” Steve says, looking up at the other man. “And you don’t want it to be, once the media gets its hands on of all the information regarding Stane’s business partners and the very illegal terrorist organizations most of them represent.”

“Shit,” Stark says.

“I know,” Steve nods. “It sucks.”

“My father built this company.”

“Your father built _a_ company. Stane corrupted it long before you came into your majority.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“I’m very good at research and general deduction given specific pieces of information. Also, Stane’s talkative. And easily distracted,” Steve replies. “Especially when he’s trying to impress a redhead into having sex with him.”

“I like that I didn’t even have to dye my hair for this one,” the redhead in question chimes in, voice coming through the comm in Steve’s ear. There’s static, but he can understand what she’s saying. “I’ve got all the intel we could possibly need to lock Stane up for the rest of his miserable life. And to prove Stark’s innocence. Leaving Stane in his penthouse now.” Then, tone dry, she says, “He’s not dead, since I know you were worried about that.”

Smiling a little despite himself, Steve opens his mouth to respond, only to have Stark interrupt him. “I could basically hear all of that,” he says, frowning.

“Basically?” Steve and the redhead ask at the same time.

Steve raises his eyebrows.

“Basically,” Stark confirms. “Your comms are seriously the worst things I’ve seen — so out of date. How do you even — I mean, _in my sleep_ , I could — wait, no.” He stops fiddling with his cuff links abruptly and closes his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Okay, wait. Pepper’s out of the building? She’s got everything on her? Let me grab a few pieces of equipment and hard copy projects I’ve got here — then we’ll be good to go.

“Just — you’re strong, right? Stronger than you look? You work out. Don’t you work out? You’re like pint-sized, but everybody works out these days. Okay, you’re gonna help me. Some of this stuff is heavy. I mean, not _super_ heavy or anything, but like. Heavy heavy. Heavy enough. I’m sure we can lift it together. Probably. Dum-E!” As Stark continues to prattle, calling out to various pieces of machinery that turn out to actually listen to him, he walks into a room that’s obviously his workshop.

Steve watches him pull a duffle bag out of a closet, then begin throwing various tools and half-finished projects it.

Turning away from Stark, Steve mutters, “I think I regret this. No. No, I know. I know I _definitely_ regret this.”

“You don’t regret this,” Natasha replies. “Trust me.” There’s a burst of nothing but static from her end of the comm link, then she continues, “Well, let me put it this way. You _won’t_ regret this. Eventually.”

“I hope to God you’re right.”

“I’m always right.” Before Steve can reply, she continues, “Also, as long as he’s got access to the internet, we’ll be fine. He’ll need a solid base of operations, but I’ve got a good spot in New York.”

“Does this mean you’re in? For Nice?”

“Yeah,” she says, sounding almost happy. “Yeah, I’m in.”

 

* * *

 

“So my sources tell me he’s actually managed to interest one of mine.”

“Yes, I thought he might approach her first.”

“To replace you.”

“Darling, I’m irreplaceable. But he can’t grift to save his life, bless him.”

“You _mentored_ him!”

“Everyone has their talents, of course. Your second didn’t take after you at all.”

“Not true.”

“Fine, fine. He took after you in a very violent sort of way.”

“His life experiences were far different.”

“But you took care of him, after Hydra.”

“I look after my own.”

“As do I.”

“Regardless of their histories.”

“I believe you.”

 

* * *

 

_This is also how it begins:_

 

“Put these in.”

Taking the small device Stark hands him, Steve quirks a brow. “What is it?”

“State of the art earwig. I literally invented it like an hour ago.”

“That’s hyperbole,” Natasha comments.

“Okay, whatever, ruin the mystique. I fabricated these this morning after tweaking some things — I had the project underway for the military, but then they decided to go in a different direction. That direction involved a lot more explosions and a lot less communication,” Stark says, giving one to Natasha before demonstrating how to insert the tiny thing into their ears.

“They’re sub-vocal — they work by picking up vibrations. You basically barely have to speak. Invisible unless somebody knows you’ve got it, obviously,” he continues, willfully oblivious to the way Steve’s eyebrows keep climbing toward his hairline.

“Nice,” Natasha says, putting hers in.

Shrugging, Steve follows suit. “All right. So we’re trialing these today. Just walking around, seeing how they work. What’s the projected range, Stark?”

“Miles,” Stark replies, grinning broadly. His goatee looks mildly ridiculous when he smiles that wide, but given the way his company — along with his reputation and credibility  within the business world — crumpled, Steve’ll take any good spirits the man has.

“Nice,” Natasha says again.

A bundle of still-tied rope drops from the ceiling.

Stark dives under a table.

Natasha draws two handguns from God only knows where.

Steve looks up toward the rafters where the rope came from.

If whoever’s up there wanted them dead, they’d be dead and none the wiser.

“Aw, rope, no,” a voice says, sounding supremely disappointed in the black, nylon bundle. A moment later, just the end of another piece of rope hits the ground near the first one and a sandy-haired, blue-eyed man drops from the rafters. He offers all of them a bright smile as he asks, “Can I have one of those ear thingies?”

“What?” Stark squawks beneath the table. “What? Security, what the fuck?”

Steve raises his eyebrows again, this time at no one in particular.

Natasha just followed Barton’s movements as he came down the rope, keeping her guard up and her fingers on the triggers — ready for anything. She’s still got her guns trained on him and she doesn’t look impressed in the least.

“Seriously, you _are_ Barton, right?” Stark asks, head popping up on the opposite side of the table. His hair’s a mess. Steve doesn’t know why diving under a table would have made his hair look like that, since it didn’t a moment ago, but he’s got other things to worry about.

“Nat,” Steve says.

Her lips turn down at the corners. It’s as close as she’ll get to disagreeing with him in front of Stark, but she slides her guns back into their hiding places. Steve would be hardpressed to pinpoint exactly where those hiding places are, despite having watched her just now.

“Mister Barton,” Steve says, turning to face the new man.

“Mister Rogers,” Barton says. Then he snickers. “Ha. Mister Rogers. Sorry, that’ll never not be funny. Also, Mister Barton was my dad. Please never call me that again.” His expression goes from joking and playful to deadly serious from one sentence to the next.

“I’ve heard of you,” Steve says.

“I’ve heard of you, too,” Barton replies.

“I hired him, once upon a time,” Stark says. “For security.”

“I’m excellent at security.”

“Except for how you robbed me,” Stark deadpans.

“I robbed your business partner,” Barton replies.

“Well. I guess I don’t mind that so much.”

“How’d he rob you?” Natasha asks, eyes still narrowed at Barton.

“I got into the company through the regular security-hiring process.”

“His fake resume and all that detailed an exemplary military career,” Stark mutters, apparently still miffed.

“Hey now, that’s my legit military you’re disparaging there,” Barton says. He waves his hand before Stark can respond and continues, “That gave me the run of the place, for the most part. I worked things for almost a month before Stane practically handed me the perfect opportunity to retrieve the item I’d been hired to find.

“I mean that legitimately — the code to her personal safe was written on a piece of paper he pulled out of his pocket. He laid it down right in front of me. How much more silver platter can you get?” Barton asks.

“You’re in retrieval?” Steve asks.

“Sure. Retrieval, infiltration — whichever.”

“You grift?” Natasha asks, eyes narrowing to slits.

“Nah,” Barton says, shaking his head. “Doesn’t take much to be a security guard. I’ve got the training for that, anyway. Black ops, for the win!”

“Barton,” Steve says.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you here?”

Barton looks at Steve like he’s crazy. “Hello. Have you met you? Nomad, the famed Agent Carter’s protege of well over a decade, decides to run some kinda massive, super secret job somewhere with the baby Black Widow? _And then_ he pulls Tony Stark — bonafide tech and engineering genius _and_ multi-billionaire — in on the job? _After saving Stark’s life_?”

Flicking his gaze around, the blond just shakes his head. “C’mon, man. Gimme some credit. You’re assembling a goddamn dream team here, Rogers. I want in.”

Steve glances toward Natasha. Natasha glances back. They have a complicated conversation using mostly their eyebrows and slight shifts in their expressions. Finally, Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Whatever,” she says.

“Tony, give him an earwig. Barton, you lose that, hand it over to anybody other than one of the three of us, or do anything I don’t like and we’ll be having a talk.”

Barton’s expression turns solemn. “Won’t be a beautiful day in the neighborhood, huh?”

Showing more teeth than he usually does, Steve smiles. “No. No, it won’t be.”

“No problem,” Barton says, accepting the earwig from Stark.

“This is a test,” Steve says, looking down at his watch. “You have two hours and sixteen minutes to get into the city’s archives and bring me every map in there from 1918.”

“Ooooooh,” Barton says, eyes twinkling. “Excellent. Stark can’t do it cause they’re all hard copies, aren’t they? I getcha. Right — will you say I cheated if I use the air ducts?”

“You can’t use the air ducts,” Natasha scoffs. “The Mythbusters proved that won’t work. It makes too much noise.”

“Pssh, please. The Mythbusters. I love me some Adam Savage and Jamie Hyneman, but c’mon. I’m a _specialist_ ,” Barton says.

“Two hours and fourteen minutes,” Steve comments.

 

* * *

 

“Who is that?”

“I haven’t the faintest.”

“Is that — ”

“Oh wait, I do know him. Vaguely.”

“How vaguely?”

“Well, it’s more that I know _of_ him, darling. No details.”

“What _do_ you know?”

“That’s most definitely an actual bow and a quiver full of arrows.”

“ _Why_ is he using those?”

“Do you remember Chisholm?”

“Buck Chisholm? The alcoholic retrieval specialist?”

“Indeed. That’s his protege. After a fashion.”

“Which fashion?”

“Well, Chisholm was mostly terrible at _having_ a protege. Jacques Ducquesne helped train him up after Chisholm left visible bruises on the boy.”

“And that all led to him using a ridiculous weapon?”

“Well, Trickshot and the Swordsman. They were both mildly ridiculous.”

“And now they’re both dead.”

“Yes, but the boy’s not.”

“You’re very optimistic.”

“He sought them out for a reason. They’ll make the right choice about him.”

 

* * *

 

_This is also how it begins:_

 

“This isn’t going to work,” Natasha says.

“It’ll be tricky, but we can make it happen,” Steve replies.

“No, I mean your plan’s solid, it’s just — it’s not a four person job, Steve.”

“You, Barton, and I can handle most things.”

“We can _probably_ handle things. But bringing in a hitter would make sure we weren’t cutting it too close.”

“Who’ve you got in mind?”

“I think you’ll like him.”

“Like you like Barton?”

“I don’t like Barton,” she says, her face blanking like she’s pulled on a mask.

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t.”

“So the shrimp from your Chinese last night that you kept slipping him when you thought no one would notice — those were what? Poisoned?”

“I don’t like crustaceans.”

“Then why’d you order that?”

“Shut up, Steve.”

Smirking, Steve says, “So mature, Romanovna.”

She doesn’t respond for several long moments, but her phone beeps three times in her pocket. Pulling it free, she scans the messages and then raises her eyes to Steve’s.

“My hitter will be in town in two days. We meet where he wants, when he wants. You’ll have to earn his trust.” Then it’s her turn to smirk at him, the expression sitting easily on her face. “Hm… yes. Yes, I think you two will get along well. Like a house on fire.”

Steve doesn’t know what to make of the smile Natasha’s wearing as she leaves the room, but he decides he’ll take her word for it. It’s gotten him this far.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not sure it counts, since she brought him in.”

“It counts.”

“But yours didn’t do any of the work to get him.”

“Darling. How much work do you think it took to gain her trust?”

“Enough.”

“And then to gain her friendship? So that she’d make that phonecall?”

“No need to be so smug about it.”

 

* * *

 

_This is also how it begins:_

 

“James.”

“Natalia.”

“Let me introduce you to a friend,” Natasha says.

Brows rising, James comments, “That didn’t take long.”

Steve stays where she told him to say, just behind her and to her left — nonthreatening and motionless.

Stark’s in the back fiddling around with his computers, probably making sure all of the money he’d shifted from his personal accounts had gotten into the proper accounts. Steve knows how to move money, but not the way Stark does. Something Cayman, something Swiss, something else involving a startup tech company in Ireland. Steve’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know the details. They’d probably make him frown despite himself.

Clint’s in the rafters. He’s not actually supposed to do anything up there, but Natasha hadn’t vetoed his plans when he’d told everyone what they were, so Steve wasn’t going to let it bother him.

“Long enough,” Natasha says.

The man in front of them — James — is broad shouldered and tall — taller than Steve. Not that it takes much to be taller than Steve. It never has. But James has light eyes, almost white where he’s standing just outside the shadows. Dark hair, light eyes, a cleft chin, and a jaw that Steve thinks could have been chiseled out of marble, it’s so hard right now — it’s like a work of art. He hopes that Natasha knows what the hell she’s doing.

“I came because you called,” James says.

“I called because we need you.”

“‘We,’” he mutters, sneering.

“We,” Natasha agrees, smile widening. “It’s good to see you.”

“You’re looking well,” James replies.

“This is Steve Rogers,” she says.

“Steve Rogers,” James says, eyes barely flicking toward Steve to acknowledge him. “I could have killed your man up high at least six different times.”

“I know,” Natasha says. “Why do you think I let him stay there?”

“Aw, Tasha, no,” Barton sighs. At least this time he drops the first rope properly, so he doesn’t actually require the second. “That’s just mean.”

“No,” Natasha says, never taking her eyes off of James. “That’s trust.”

James stands frozen for a moment, eyes turning into slits as he judges them — all of them. Then the tension bleeds out of his shoulders and he shakes his head. “Really? This is who you entrust to me? He is — ” James breaks off and starts mumbling unintelligibly in Russian.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he meets Barton’s eyes head-on and holds them. From where he’s standing, Steve can see James’ eyes are cold and hard as he says in perfect English, “You know who I am. You know what I can do. Keep that in mind when you think of Natalia. I will be watching.”

Then James looks right back to Natasha, switches back to Russian, and growls, “This is a stupid idea, little sister — tying yourself to these people.”

“I’ll tell you what’s stupid: Assuming you’re the only two people who speak Russian in the room,” Steve comments, the language sliding off his tongue with ease.

“Yeah,” Clint says, nodding. His Russian’s a little rusty and oddly accented, but he’s very clearly not bothering to enunciate as he shakes his head and turns his back on them all, mumbling the whole time. The only thing any of them can clearly hear as he walks away is, “I’m making a coffee run.” And even that’s got some strange grammar going on.

Quirking a brow, Steve tips his chin toward the table full of maps and returns to English to say, “Nat, I’ll leave you to give him the rundown. Let me know if you’ve got any questions. I’ll be on comms.” He gives her a smile as he heads for the door to the back room. It’s an _I trust you_ sort of smile, no longer tinged with wariness and disbelief.

And he does trust her — she brought James in. She’s been as much help gathering all the pieces and players they need for the job and placing them as he has. He likes working with her. Natasha’s sense of humor is dry but wicked and, once she makes up her mind, she’s all-in on whatever it is they’re doing. She won’t leave him high and dry — he won’t leave her, either.

So he trusts that she’ll be able to convince James to join them, even if it’s not a permanent arrangement.

“Is it true, Rogers?” James asks, voice carrying. They’re all apparently back to English, now that everyone knows everyone else can speak Russian. Probably. Steve knows he’ll have to check to see if Tony speaks it as well — or maybe his AI can translate for him.

Pausing, Steve turns around to look at the James over his shoulder. “Is what true?”

“You and Carter. Is it true?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes,” Steve replies.

“Do you still?” James asks, still in precisely the spot where he stood for the introductions.

“Of course,” Steve says. Then he shrugs. “Differently now, than before. But I still love her.”

“Did she leave you?”

“Yes,” Steve says.

“Why?”

His smile rueful now, Steve finally gives his entire team an answer to the question they’ve all been dying to ask. It’s only fair, after all — they’re going to be going out into the field with him, they need to know if his last partner found him so incompetent or untrustworthy that she abandoned him. “She retired.”

Natasha and James share a look, then turn in unison to face him. Their shoulders brush as James questions, “To Italy?”

It’s Steve’s turn around completely and frown now. “What makes you ask that?”

“We know someone,” Natasha says.

“Someone very dear to us,” James continues.

Natasha has a wrinkle between her brows. “She also retired.”

James’ expression perfectly mirrors Natasha’s. “To Italy.”

“Recently,” she says.

“Five months ago?” Steve asks.

They both nod.

It doesn’t take a mastermind to put the pieces together, to draw the proper conclusions. Or, at least, the potential conclusions.

Steve’s still frowning as he asks, “Do you think we’ve been played?”

“Probably,” Natasha says.

Dropping back into Russian, James murmurs, “Ida would never hurt us.”

“Peggy would never hurt me,” Steve comments, not bothering with the Russian.

“Miss Emke and Miss Carter,” Natasha says, still frowning slightly. “Interesting.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve nods.

“I can think of a few other ways,” James says, shaking his head again.

“Well,” Steve shrugs. “Are we going to let this development scare us off the job in Nice?”

“No,” Natasha and James answer, once again in unison.

“Good.” Turning to leave, Steve stops once more when it occurs to him to ask, “James — is it true?”

“What?”

“Your arm?”

Natasha hisses her disapproval of the question, but James looks amused. He pulls the glove off of his left hand and flexes his fingers wide. “Yes.”

“All the way to the shoulder?”

“And a little farther,” James says.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’ll call it a learning experience.”

“ _I can make it better_ ,” Tony shouts from the back room.

Steve sighs. “Ignore him. Please.”

“ _Don’t ignore me! I’ll just get louder,_ ” Tony continues to shout.

“Quite the team you’ve got here, Rogers,” James says.

“I think so,” Steve says, no irony in his tone or expression — just an honest smile.

“Say I let Natalia talk me into this.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks.

“What then?”

“Whatever you want,” Steve says. “Stick around, don’t stick around. But if it all works out as well as Natasha thinks it will with you on the team, if you fit…” He smiles. “I won’t ask you to leave.”

“I want a trial run.”

“I expected you would.”

“Think you know everything?”

“Boys,” Natasha interrupts, rolling her eyes. “Put your measuring sticks away — at least until you’ve got a room all to yourselves. I’ve got a plan to go over here. James, this _is_ your trial run.”

“Okay,” James says.

Steve can feel the other man’s eyes on him as he walks away.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think she’s right?”

“About what?”

“Our boys.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I rather monopolized mine’s time.”

“You did.”

“But I wasn’t his first anything.”

“Mine had no choice about most of his firsts.”

“It’s good mine isn’t inclined to rush things.”

“So you think she’s right.”

“She usually is, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Does it bother you?”

“No. Retirement suits me. I was selfish to keep him to myself for so long.”

 

* * *

 

_But this is how all the pieces fall into place, all the players take the board, and the real game begins:_

 

“Mister Ambassador,” Natasha murmurs, smiling. She’s a brunette for this, her skin bronzed just slightly — too much and the mark would know it was fake, would know she isn’t what she seems. She was very, very specific about those types of details.

But then, the devil’s in the details.

“Miss Alianovna,” the ambassador replies.

“I can’t wait to see the Degas you mentioned earlier,” Natasha says — she’s practically simpering.

Steve’s unsure how he feels about it, since it’s so far from her usual tone and inflection. Tuning out the rest of the conversation Natasha’s having with the ambassador, he says, “She’s got his badge. Barton, take the hand-off and go. We’re running out of time.”

“Ninety-four seconds and counting,” Stark says. “I’ve got the security cameras on loop. You guys are good to go. Just, y’know. Go. Like seriously. This is giving me an ulcer. I’m not cut out for this kind of work.”

“Shut it, Stark.”

“You shut it, Barnes.”

“Whatever,” James says. “You’ve got empty hallways, my ends are all tied up.”

“We need everything off that hard drive,” Steve says.

“Get that USB drive in there and I’ll just steal the whole damn computer, Christ,” Tony mutters. “Seriously, J can be in and out in like ten seconds. You all have seventy seconds. Also, I need to pee.”

“You need to pee,” James deadpans.

“ _Yes_ , don’t mock me, you Soviet cyborg.”

“ _Boys_ ,” Natasha’s voice comes back on the line. “The ambassador’s now indisposed. Sending pics to you for confirmation now, Steve, but I think the Degas is a fake.”

“I’m in,” Clint says. “USB’s in. Tony — go.”

“I’m heading for my exit — ” Natasha’s interrupted, her voice cut off so abruptly that Steve thinks something’s wrong with her earwig. A moment later, though, and all of them hear her gasp. It sounds involuntary to Steve — something caused by sudden, intense pain — and he’s moving before anyone else reacts.

“Barton, get that USB drive once Tony’s finished. James, cover him. I’ve got Nat. Tony, get in the front seat and drive — head back to base. Make sure there’s no one there waiting for you before you get out — JARVIS  can do a scan or something. Prep the med kit. I’ve got alternative transportation. Barton and James, just get the intel and get the fuck out. Circle base, make sure Tony wasn’t followed. If he was, take care of it,” Steve says. He’s through the embassy’s decimated line of security guards before he stops talking.

In through a side window, out the executive assistant’s door, up a flight of stairs, into a hallway and past all the guest suites until he gets to the one Nat was given. She’s inside, her off-white gown stained blood red down the right side. The skirt is ripped up the left and, through that slit, Steve can see she’s got her legs around someone’s neck.

Her arm’s bleeding profusely.

Rather, her shoulder is bleeding profusely. The spot just beneath her collarbone where all the television shows put gunshot wounds. It’s a terrible place to get shot. It’s a terrible place to get _stabbed_ — especially if the person wielding the knife is smart enough to slice and yank the the blade out immediately.

Natasha is pale beneath her fake tan and, though her legs are straining, her chest is rising and falling too shallowly.

Steve’s at her side in a few strides, taking hold of the man’s chin and lifting as he twists to snap his spinal cord. He doesn’t know the man, he’s not their mark, but that doesn’t matter. Catching Natasha before she follows the man to the ground, Steve says, “Tony, you got facial recognition software in this pair of contacts?”

“Yeah,” comes Tony’s response, terse.

“Good. Start searching. I want anyone affiliated with that man. I want everything you can get me on him and who his friends are — what he was doing here,” Steve says, ripping strips out of the already shredded section of Natasha’s skirt so he can tie a tourniquet on her shoulder before moving her.

“You need medical treatment?” He asks her.

“Dunno,” she answers. “James… James’ll know.”

“Okay,” Steve says, scooping her up into his arms after wrapping a dark, wool blanket around her shoulders. Hopefully that will hide the blood as he exits the room and then the building.

“USB’s done its thing,” Barton says. “Rogers, I’m coming your way.”

“No,” Steve says. “Stick with James.”

“Alarms in three — two — ”

The alarms scream through the hallways and corridors of the embassy and Steve bolts for the assistant’s office so he can get out the same way he got in. It’s not ideal, but he can’t take Natasha out through the crowds of people. If she was still conscious, they could maybe make it work, but she’s fading in and out now and he can’t lie —

Steve can’t lie to save his _own_ life, everyone knows that, but when one of the embassy guards comes running toward him, he lies to save Natasha’s.

“Help,” he says, pitching his voice a bit higher than it usually is and gesturing back toward the patio lights with his chin. “Help, she’s — I don’t know what’s wrong, but she’s bleeding. I found her — a man ran off. I found her and he ran. I think he did something — I think he set off the alarms,” Steve continues. “Please, I have to get her to the medics.”

The guard nods and rushes past him.

“That was awful,” Natasha whispers, lips brushing against the side of his neck.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Sorry.” Fine tremors are running through his arms and his back hurts almost enough to make him lean against something. He can’t stop, though. They’re still far too close to the embassy.

“It’s fine. It’s dark. He probably won’t be able to remember what you look like.”

“Rogers, you got her?” Barton asks.

“I’ve got her,” Steve says, pain shooting through his side as he continues on toward the line of parked cars across the street in the alleys a few blocks from the embassy.

“Rogers,” James says.

“What?” Steve half-gasps, adrenaline wearing off as he tries to keep up his pace. Natasha isn’t large, not by any means, but she’s still drifting in and out of consciousness and he’s never been particularly good at running full-tilt. Despite his best efforts, he’s flagging.

“Stop running. If you pass out, you’ll be no use to her.”

“Can’t. Three — three minutes. Police response time,” Steve says.

“Barton and I’ve got our own alternative means of transportation. It’ll fit the two of you. Tell me where you are.”

“Cross — cross street,” Steve says, collapsing against a car despite himself. “Can’t — signs. Can’t see ’em. Hang on. I’ll look.”

“Don’t bother,” Tony says, coming through the comms again.

“GPS. I sent their coords to your phone, Barnes,” Tony says.

“Rogers,” James says. “You breathing?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Sure.” Seconds pass and he gasps again. “Okay. Okay, not — not really.”

“He’s got asthma,” Barton says.

James growls, “I’ve got a spare inhaler.”

Steve barely manages to wheeze, “What?”

“Idiot,” Natasha whispers, conscious enough for the moment to call him names.

“What?” Steve asks again, his chest squeezing more painfully it was a moment ago.

His vision turning black around the edges, narrowing to the dim streetlights so far away and deep shadows so close, Steve feels himself sliding sideways against the car where he fell. He can’t even keep himself upright any longer.

Lights flicker in front of him — headlights. They’re just pinpricks against the back of his eyeballs, barely acknowledged as he slumps over completely, but he hopes it’s James and Barton. He hopes it’s not the police. He hopes —

“We,” Natasha mumbles. “We take care… of our own.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Oh _no_.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I believe they’ve taken on a bit more than they can handle by themselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ambassador.”

“Yes?”

“He’s Hydra.”

“Hydra?”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, that’s just _a bit_ more than they can handle by themselves.”

“It gets worse.”

“How much worse?”

“The man Steve killed. He was part of Leviathan.”

“Hydra _and_ Leviathan? You’re sure.”

“As sure as I can be.”

“Well. It was a nice retirement, while it lasted.”

“We can always re-retire.”

“Assuming we survive.”

“We have thus far.”

“Hydra and Leviathan weren’t after our children, before.”

“Darling, Hydra and Leviathan can’t even begin to comprehend the war they’ve just begun.”

“True.”

“Shall we?”

“Yes. Yes, I believe we shall.”


End file.
